Bound and Gagged
by WingsOutSpread
Summary: Sherlock is kidnapped, beaten up, etc. John receives a ransom letter telling him that he has 24 hours to find Sherlock. As the clues get steadily harder, will John find him in time? Warnings: Torture, violence. Bamf!John
1. Chapter 1

It was two a.m. on a Friday morning when Watson was woken up by the insistent buzzing of his phone. Groaning, he rolled over to fumble on his bed stand for it, knocking an anonymous object to the floor with a soft _thwump_. Wincing as the harsh glare of the small electronic burned his tired eyes, he opened the text with annoyance. It was probably Sherlock asking for more milk, or to check on the current experiment in the microwave, or something equally ridiculous.

Squinting, he made out the words;  
_"Package outside for you" _

He frowned. This wasn't the usual order Sherlock gave. Best not to ignore it though, he thought. Last time Sherlock got a package it contained not-so-legal products. Not the best thing to leave outside.

Swinging himself out of bed, he fumbled for the door, grabbing his night-gown on his way out. Stumbling in the dark (the light switch being on the other side of the damn room), he threw the door open and continued to the front door, trying not to miss any of the stairs.

It was a shame he didn't bother to turn on the light, otherwise he would've noticed the disarray of their flat.

A small, white envelope awaited him, lying on the doorstep in the chilly night air with an air of indifference to the fact that it had forced John to get out of his nice, warm bed. He huffed in annoyance, from the looks of it; it could've waited until morning. No one ever questions the contents of a white envelope, after all.

He nudged the door shut with his foot as he turned round to go back to bed, but the front the envelope caught the glare of the lamp posts outside for a second, making him frown and finally take notice to what was written on it.  
For starters, his name. In bold, impossible to misread, font.

He tore it open, finally realising that everything was not normal. That something was dreadfully suspicious was occurring. The only letters he ever got were bills.

He elbowed the light switch on, fingering out a folded sheet of paper, letting another piece drift to the floor.  
The message didn't do much to make him feel that everything was okay;  
"_By the time you read this letter, your boyfriend will be in my possession. If you ever want to see him alive again, you have twenty-four hours_ _to try and find us. First clue: 'I am a famous killer, and I got the whores good. This is where my first strike was_"

He bent down to get the other piece of paper, and unfolded it with shaking hands.

It was picture.

Of Sherlock.

Bound to a chair and gagged by a thick piece of material. He had another tied tightly around his eyes. Unconscious, judging by how his head drooped onto his shoulder.

He ran back to his room to phone Lestrade.

* * *  
It was half three when he, Lestrade and Co. were all in the station, tense and pacing.

It was silent; everyone already released their worries into the air, giving it an unpleasant tinge.

On the cork board was the note, along with the picture of Sherlock. Watson had shifted his chair so he wouldn't have to look at it.

Donovan startled them all as she walked in with a tray of mugs;  
"I thought everyone could do with some caffeine," she shrugged, eyes slightly puffed, giving away the fact she had been crying.

"Thanks," Lestrade smiled tightly, moving to sit back in his chair, turning around to John, "are you _sure_ that Sherlock didn't have a case?"

Watson huffed, "I've told you, he was playing his violin constantly, and he only does that when he has nothing else to do! He didn't act like he usually does at all when he has a case!"

"Fine, back to this damn riddle then. I've sent Anderson to get all the cases that mentions someone who deals with prostitutes," he added for the benefit of Donovan, who slunk into another chair after handing out the mugs. John clutched his in his hands, frowning into the gently steaming contents. Twenty-four hours to save Sherlock, and who knew how long this game would last?

"That's probably going to be half the archive!" She replied in outrage, "It'll take weeks to go through it all, and the Freak obviously doesn't have that long!"

"Well what do you want me to do?" He slammed his hand down, yelling back, "Do you know any famous person who dealt with whores? Because I bloody well don't."

Then Watson got a marvellous idea.  
"Famous. He has to be famous. And it was sent to me, so he can't just be famous underground or whatever," he looked at Lestrade, frantically trying to put it together in his head, "and it referred to the person in past tense, meaning they're dead."

They stared at each other for a while, trying to figure out between them in silence who was dead, and famous for dealing with whores.

Then John remember the documentary he watch a few weeks back, when Sherlock insisted on studying the effects of a lack of sleep on the average human's brain. Since that _obviously_ ruled him out, Watson had to deal with being prodded and nagged to not fall asleep for three nights, before Sherlock finally found out what he needed and sent Watson to bed.

"Jack the Ripper!"

The other two stared at him like he had lost it,  
"I doubt it'll be someone from the 19th Century, John."

"Well do you know any other _famous _person who 'dealt' with whores?"

"Fine, we'll take any lead we can get, I suppose. Donovan, go wiki Jack the Ripper, and find out where the first body was found."

Watson let out a sigh. He knew it couldn't be that easy, something will be wrong, or it'll be an over-sized trap for them all. Either way, they had to try. For Sherlock

A muffled groan was heard in the small, well cemented cell as Sherlock shifted awake. Coldness seeped into his side, and his head was groggy and unwilling to work properly as he tried to work out where he was. No noise, apart from himself. Alone then. He tried to work out more- he could deduce some one's love life based on their cologne, for goodness sake- but his brain was as stubborn as him, and refused to take note of anything else around him.

He fiddled with the rope on his wrists, trying to find some sort of leeway. No chance, and he guessed an even smaller chance with the rope around his ankles. He refrained from letting out a frustrated sigh.

It was around a lifetime before the sound of a door swinging open entertained his presence.

Footsteps; heavy. Male, probably muscular. Wearing boots, worn from wear.

They stopped just behind him, the owner staring down at his curled up body.

"I was expecting more from you, Sherlock. You just made it so easy. Too easy! I'm half-expecting something to happen, to reveal why you would purposely let yourself get caught, because that can't be the best you can do, can it?"

The feet shuffled, one nudging at his body to turn onto his back. Sherlock wished he wasn't blindfolded, he so wanted to see this man. And the movement didn't help with the mugginess in his head, he felt dizzy and light-headed now. Brilliant.

"Or maybe it is? Maybe the great detective is just a title you gave yourself!" A soft chuckle, "well, let's not let that ruin the entertainment. Twenty-four hours until the end, let's hope your boyfriend can make it in time, eh?" Louder laughter now.

"I have a friend outside for you; he desperately wants to meet "The Great Sherlock Holmes". And he _loves _using his belt to mutilate bodies. For some reason the Police don't like it when you do it to others" The tone changed, injecting a frown into it, as though the man was trying to figure out why. Silence for a couple of seconds before he returned to what was happening, "anyways, I do hope the two of you get along, no fun if you don't is it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. An insane kidnapper, so cliché.

Another man entered the room, and rough hands tugged his shirt open, leaving his heaving chest bare. Someone else left.  
He braced himself for tonight's "entertainment", trying to think of something else. Anything else.

As the first strike was made, the strong leather meeting his chest with a sharp pain, he could only think of one thing.

John.


	2. Chapter 2

_22 hours left_

It had been a fast, silent journey to Durward Street in the police can that Lestrade, Watson and Donovan were occupying. Outside it was all flashing lights and sirens as the four police cars sped down the silent roads of London. The atmosphere was thick, enough so that John felt like he could reach out and touch it, feel the surface of the doubt and fear that were felt collectively by the occupants.

He was half grateful when the car pulled over on the street, just across from The Board School.

"Right, lads," Lestrade ordered, barely waiting for them all to clamber out of their cars, "spread out, we're looking for some sort of clue. Most likely in a small, white envelope. No dawdling, we probably don't have much time."

John decided to split off by himself. He didn't fancy having to trail after some one or other, trying to be useful but probably just getting in their way. He rubbed his thigh absentmindedly as he went to lean on the wall. He damn leg, it thought it had been fine, but _no,_ it just _had_ to screw up when he needed it most.

He sighed, and stumbled back upright. Complaining about his leg was hardly going to help Sherlock, now was it?

***

Sherlock stared up into the fabric that was tied tight around his eyes. His chest was stinging, covered in some sort of sticky fluid that was most likely blood. He took deep, regulating breaths through the stifling gag, trying to minimize the pain. Fortunately, the drugs from earlier had worn off, meaning at least he could think properly. God help him if boredom was added to this torture.

Currently, he was busying himself with working out all the possibilities of the ending of this scenario. Two out of the twenty-six were in his favour.

The door swung open, a warm puff of air added to the room's collection of blood-tinted, sweaty-smelling supply.

Footsteps; heavy. Male, probably muscular. Wearing boots, worn from wear.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and prepared for the worst.

The footsteps stopped just above him

It was twenty minutes into the thorough searching that a policeman started waving a small, white envelope triumphantly. It had been hidden amongst some ivy that stretched over a wall, reaching out to a small car park for the use of the flat owners beside. Lestrade snatched it from his hand, ripping it open before everyone had made their way over, and pulled out two pieces of paper.

The first unfolded was of an image of Sherlock again, shirt ripped open and chest littered in blood, bruises and welts that had obviously been made by some form of belt.

He hastily folded that back up, trying to keep it away from John who was obviously effected by it, if his pale face and blank expression was anything to go by.

He took out the other sheet, and revealed the next clue.

"_Pink Floyd_"

***

"My friend told me you two got on _fabulously_," the man grinned, "now, we have the little trouble of how to help your friend find you. What do you think would be a good message, hmmm? Should we carve it into your back? Make you scream it into a recorder? You _must _have a good idea, detective. You and your large brain must know of a way to get him to try and work faster, we've barely started!"

Sherlock wished the gag wasn't in, he hated having to be quiet, having to stand (or lie down, as in this situation) there, listening to some idiot waffle on and bring down the IQ of everyone present.

There was silence, and Sherlock half wanted to let out a sarcastic moan or obviously-forced whimper. He had a feeling that this man's ego would block the sarcasm behind it, and think he really was in serious pain though.

"I know...you'll write it! You can write out the next clue!" He sounded excited, and Sherlock wished he could roll his eyes at him. He had been in worse situations, after all. Just ask Watson.

Large, strong hands grabbed him by his arms, wrenching him upright and holding him there, his chest roaring in protest, some reopening and weeping blood against the movement. Sherlock didn't make a noise though, choking it back easily.

"Now, be a good boy and do as I say, or things _will _get worse," he ordered, shuffling himself behind his body, "and I know that the whipping was child's play, Freak. I can make you _soo _much if I want. And I don't want to. Not yet." His voice had lowered, now had a serious note to it.

Now Sherlock was starting to get worried. This man was finally pulling up his socks, and that wasn't part of the plans that meant getting out alive.

He was brought upright, feet brushing the floor,

"Now, are you going to be a good little boy?"

He nodded, realizing that this man was finally playing properly, and Sherlock had been hoping he wouldn't do that for another couple of hours at least.

He was released, tumbling to the floor with a hiss. He curled up, trying to protect his front as the man knelt down just behind him, and swiped his palm with something sharp.

"Now, when I untie your hands, you're going to write out exactly what a say, okay? And hurry, otherwise I'm going to have to keep re-opening the cut, and I'm told that that _really _hurts."

Sherlock nodded.

***  
"Maybe they mean the last place they played at here?" Donovan called out.

"The first place they played at?" Another person offered.

"A place that was in their videos?"

"Where they first met up?"

"OKAY!" Lestrade yelled, ordering silence, "I want Donovan and Anderson to go back and research Pink Floyd, find anything you can, everyone else, same groups you came in, go and search out the areas that they tell you. For now, stand by and be ready to leave as quick as possible."

Watson limped behind Lestrade to the car, wondering just how likely they were to get Sherlock in one piece.

_21 hours left_

One hour they spent searching through the tedious amount of places referred to by Pink Floyd. They sifted through fansites, albums, music videos, song meanings and every gig played by them. Their list grew long, spiralling through dog-eared pages that were handed to different teams. John, a large fan of Pink Floyd, went through them all, sorting them in order of the more likely, down to the places that listed where fans had spotted the famous band.

Teams of four had been sorted, each given a list and an order of time being of the essence, and they went out into the grey-sky morning, sipping too hot coffee while speeding off.

John stayed with Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson, heading off to

Limping around the small stage, he searched frantically for the precious white envelope, time being of the essence. But there were too many possibilities. Too many places to hide it, what with the size and lack of bulk.

But they continued onwards, clearing – stage, and, with a sense of disappointment that no one had found anything in the past hour, they went on to the Countdown Club, where the band first performed. It was simple enough to get in (waving warrants in the air while wearing the Uniform usually done the trick), and it was ten minutes into the searching that Lestrade's radio went off with a buzzing noise.

"Sir? We found it Sir!" The voice cheered.

"Where was it? Have you opened it yet? Where next?"

"We're at Battersea Power Station, and yes, Sir. The clue's 'The Reclining Woman'."

Lestrade huffed in irritation, "right, call everyone back to the Station. We're going to have to try to figure out this one now."

Watson gave Lestrade a furrowed look, "Ask was there a picture. How's Sherlock?"  
He passed on the message, and seemed hesitant of telling John before replying, "A picture of Sherlock. And a message written on the floor, looks like it out of blood, but they're unsure."

"What does it say?"  
"Tick tock."

...

_19 hours left _

The new notes were posted up on the cork board when they made it back. Only a few officers were there, most out and about, waiting for the next place to check out. Watson examined the latest photo; He was still bound, and was laying on his stomach, curled up slightly, his right hand reaching out to the message, as if he just finished writing it. He hand was covered in the damned substance, and from the way Sherlock was positioning it, it was most likely slit up so he could write it. The words weren't larger, meaning not too much blood wasted on it. That was a good sign. The kidnapper obviously didn't want to accidently kill him. Not yet, at least.

Someone had brought Watson a polystyrene cup that bared the Starbucks logo, and a muffin to go with it. Both sat untouched as he fidgeted with a pen, waiting for the latest information. Lestrade had sent two teams to The Reclining Woman club, roughly twenty minutes ago.

Anderson was sitting across from him, obviously in charge of making sure he didn't do something stupid, or life threatening. What, he didn't know, but he supposed being around Sherlock would give you that sort of reputation.

The clock ticked the seconds past, as they sat there in awkward silence.

***  
Sherlock hissed as his hands were forced back behind his back, and gave a fruitless struggle to try and free them. The man just laughed, though, and tied them with the same piece of rope, and gave him a kick into the stomach for his efforts.

Gasping in pain, he felt tears stinging his eyes as he rolled over, curled up to try and protect his wounded front. His hand stung, crying out for attention as it protested against any movement in his fingers. It was covered in multiple shallow cuts, shutting just as soon as the cut was made. The man obviously didn't care how long this was taking, enjoying pressing the sharp blade against his palm again and again.

"You're a miserable sight; Johnny must be so upset by the pictures!" The man chuckled, "but I suppose I should show him what will happen if he's not on time, hmm? I'll go get my... friend. He _loves _this bit so much! A bit of a pyromaniac, if you ask me."

Footsteps trailed off, and Sherlock buried his face into the cold floor. Watson had better bloody hurry up, or there won't be much of him to save.

_18 hours and 40 minutes left_

Lestrade banged the door open, startling Watson out of his thoughts. John gave him a questioning look;

"So? What's the next clue?"

Lestrade shook his head, "It's not there, The lads checked it twice, nothing."

"Now what?" Anderson asked.

"Well, now we've got to find something else that's a 'reclining woman'."


	3. Chapter 3

As the leader of this kidnapping left the room, the door barely had time to shut before another man entered. He sounded of slighter built, but not lightweight in any means, and middle age. Heavy wheezing indicated a smoking habit.

He braced himself, biting down on the gag as to stop himself from voicing his pain. It was a shock, then, when large hands grabbed at his ankles, forcing his feet into the air, contorting his body into an awkward position, before a foot kicked him onto his front, driving a stifled cry from him.

Sherlock wriggled, trying to kick the hands off as they forced off his well-worn shoes and socks, the cold air biting at them as the sturdy protection was taken away. Sherlock had studied many effective methods of torture (only for academic reasons, he swore), and knew how the feet was high in the list of 'most nerve endings in a certain part of the body'.

He heard a rustle as the man pulled something out of his pocket,

"Boss won't let me prepare you for tonight just yet, so we're gonna have a bit more relaxed version of it now. 'Cause, well, I've gotta do something," The gruff voice informed, grabbing the bare feet that were struggling to remain out of sight, and forced them up, pulling at the scars on his chest again, choking a whimper from Sherlock's throat. Again.

There was a flicking noise, like a lighter being flicked on.

Sherlock wasn't able to hold back the screams as he feet were burnt slowly, the lighter working their way slowly the sole, pressing down lightly on them. He felt tears soaking the material cutting his face as he fought to get away, trying to force the man off him.

_16 hours left_

They had searched four clubs, two streets, and a market stall before someone realised what 'The Reclining Woman' referred to. After searching through hundreds of cases and the more dubious of alleyways, a policeman of bottom rank caught wind of what the riddle was when he arrived for his shift, and made an idle comment of how his wife had dragged him to stare at the work of Henry Moore in the Tate.

A team of eight had been bustled out of the station by Lestrade and Watson when they heard, racing to the Tate gallery while Lestrade made hasty phone calls to get the exhibition to clear of people as to make it much more easier to search.

The journey had taken longer than was good for Watson's health as they trooped out into the cold before bustling into the entrance hall, crawling with people who were trying to figure out which way went where, and why the hell had the exhibition had been suddenly closed.

A flash of an ID and they entered the exhibition room to the left of the crowd of people, all filing out and covering the room within minutes. The envelope was hardly hidden, after all, poking out from beneath a stand, easily swept underneath by feet.

Opened and pulled out, Watson took a deep breath before looking at the picture, easily ignoring the clue for now.

His feet were bare in the photo, which confused him for a minute, before he could make out the state them. Charred, varying in colour, though only on the soles of the feet. Signs of burning.

He shoved it into his pocket, reminding himself that the faster they solve these clues, the better it was for everyone.

It was still hard to forget the image though.

"The Long Brown's are here," Lestrade called out, baffled. Once again.

They left the room, and Lestrade stormed up to a rather nervous looking man, most likely in charge of the Tate, and ordered a copy of the CCTV from the past hour to be forwarded to him within the next twenty minutes, spun around to bark at some other officers to go back to the station and have it cross examined, before continuing his angry march back to his vehicle, mumbling something about idiots and envelopes.

Watson heaved a sigh before striding back to the car after him.

The faster they solved these clues, the better it is for everyone. If only that was easier said than done, as they drove back in silence.

John was dimly aware of Lestrade ordering others to look up all bands, gangs, groups and societies they had record of, and to inform him the second they found _anything _into his radio_. _

John leaned back, and closed his eyes.

It wasn't looking great for everyone at the moment, he couldn't help but note in the darker part of his mind.

_12 hours left_  
They had searched every street, club, venue and even a park that had so much as rhymed with the words "The Long Browns". They were starting to get desperate as the minutes ticked past, gradually trickling and forming into the dreaded hours. It was getting worse, and they know that if this wasn't the last of the damned riddles, then they were in a lot of trouble. John pushed these thoughts aside, helping out by trying to find relevant hints and tiny notes hidden away on the internet and in their archives.

It was now two in the afternoon, and some of the teenagers lucky enough to have gotten work experience with the police were trawling in late, half mumbled excuses about a party and lost oyster cards. They were ignored as they passed around the coffee and teas (included with a selection of biscuits, of course) to the occupants of the room.

"So, what's the problem? Was there, like, a really cool stabbing or something?" One of the more obnoxious females cried out. She received several glares and a few sighs, to which she responded, "What? How are we meant to know what we're doing if you guys won't tell us what's happening?"

Lestrade huddled them into his office, obviously wanting to order them to be civil, and not to say anything offensive. Again.

The same female had obviously not gotten the hang of talking in a quiet manner, opting to announce loud enough for John outside to overhear, "so, what's the clue you're working on now?"

John, who had decided to watch them through the door left ajar uninterestedly now, watched as Lestrade mumbled back a reply, leaning forward on his desk in a conspiring manner.

A lanky blonde, who had been slouching in an obvious attempt not to fall asleep (if the bored look in his eyes were any indication), straightened out, and started talking. Whatever he was saying, it was good, judging from the way Lestrade seemed to be paying him full attention now.

***  
"The Long Browns are here," Lestrade informed, wishing Anderson was close by. He usually dealt with the kids on work experience here. He didn't like them much; all they did was go on about their rights, and how unfair it was that they had to do the boring jobs.

Tony glanced up, finally looking awake.

"Do you mean the Long Browns who's skirts have to trail across the ground? Right bastards, forcing them to go around and not be able to show off their legs. And it's not like any of them have much to show on the top half as well!"

"What the hell are you on about? I swear, if you're high again I _will _have to arrest you."

"No! They're the St. Phil's lot, y'know? My girlfriend's there. I hate that damn skirt," he muttered the end mostly to himself, in obvious distress.

Lestrade ignored him, striding out of the door yelling, "EVERYONE, ST. PHILOMENA'S SCHOOL. STAT."

***  
Sherlock tried not to groan as he heard the door swing open again, and the heavy footsteps treaded towards him. He curled up slightly as they stopped, and hoped that whatever torture it was going to be now wouldn't take too long. Or too painful. He knew he would pass out otherwise, and that would mess everything up.

"You're running out of time, Sherlock! And look! You're boyfriend still hasn't found you. Pity that, I suppose!" The voice was far too cheerful. When he got out of there, he was going hunt this man and kill him himself (if he got out of there wasn't worth thinking about. John would find him, after all. It was John; he'll always be there to help out.)

The man bent down with a huff, kneeling just behind his back. Sherlock felt his hands being snatched, pulled up towards the man, forcing his arms into a painful position as he resisted from being forced onto his stomach.

"Such pretty long fingers," he crooned, cupping them in his own, barely reacting to Sherlock's weak attempts of a struggle, "They're just crying out to be cracked and broken. I hope you don't use your hands often, now!"

The large, slightly sweating hands rearranged themselves, forcing the left one to open up from its fisted shape, and the small room echoed with the sounds of cracks and gargled screams, punctuated by appreciative noises of the kidnapper.

****  
_11 hours left  
_The school was larger than he expected, and it was not helped by the fact that they had to work around the pupils attending. It was near the end of the school day, fortunately, meaning that they would soon be gone, making it much easier to cover the school.  
John had insisted to Lestrade on getting the school cleared, but he simply replied that, by the time they all finally left the school, it would've been the end of the classes anyways.

John grudgingly agreed before limping of behind Anderson to help search out the lockers.

***

He was shaking, sharp inhalations breath as he tried to regain his composure. This was all getting a bit too much now, if someone was to ask him. Both hands were destroyed, swelling and twisted, the stinging from the cuts that marked them merged with the broken bones.

Another man entered the room, and Sherlock couldn't hold back a whimper this time, wishing he was able to twist away, to just get out of these extremely stubborn bonds that were cutting his skin.

"Now, we need to prepare you for tonight, so I brought the pyro back. And try not to fight back; I don't think you'll be up for it." A note of irritation in his voice. About bloody time it was something else than happy.

Hands grappled at his shirt, dragging him into a sitting position. He choked on the gag as he screamed in protest.

An object had been placed down- heavy, most likely filled with some form of liquid.

It wasn't too hard to guess what was in it, even when the smell of petrol filled the room as the lid was unscrewed, and he tried not to squirm too much as his clothes were slowly drenched in the substance.

He tried to take deep breaths as he re-evaluated the most likely outcome of the scenario again.

***

It was John this time who found the new envelope, hidden away in one of the many lockers that decorated the school. He yelled at Anderson to get Lestrade just before he tore it open, grabbing the photo first.

Sherlock was on his side, broken hands on proud display that made John feel sick, but it was when he saw that his clothes were damp looking, his curled up body in a pool of some form of dark liquid with a large container which adorned the crudely written word "petrol", that made him want to dash to the nearest bathroom.

Ten minutes later, when Lestrade had appeared with a sympathetic look, he read the next clue;

"_By God's providence he was catch'd_

_With a dark lantern and burning match._

_Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring._

_Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!_

_And what should we do with him? Burn him!"_


	4. Chapter 4

_Ten Hours Left_

It hadn't taken the team long to figure out that it referred to Guy Fawkes (approximately two minutes to be exact), and Lestrade immediately sent word to the police force in Kent to search all Guy Fawkes-related areas for a small white envelope. As soon as they could, please.

Meanwhile, they got the brilliant job of searching every nook and cranny of the places in London. John was allowed (after much nagging on his behalf) to tag along with Sally and a few other nameless police men to search the Star Chamber. Which, Donovan insisted upon as they hurried to the cars, is where Guy Fawkes was kept imprisoned before his death.

It took about four hours before everyone returned to the station and admit defeat.

They should've realised it couldn't have been as easy as that, after all.

Thankfully they had decided to leave Sherlock alone for now, wanting him conscious for the "main act", leaving him to twitch and groan in silence as he tried to refrain on placing weight on places where it hurt the most. He could endure worse though, so he didn't bother crying and whimpering and whatever else he's heard that is expected in situations like these.

Instead, he done what was currently his most popular pastime. Trying to figure out his chances of survival, how long it'll take to fully recover, whether he'll be able to persuade to John that no, he really doesn't need to "talk about it", etc..

He knew quite a bit of time has passed since they last paid him attention though, and that was getting him quite worried.

Statistically, that was bad sign.

_Six Hours Left_

After realising that no, the chances were was that the clue didn't meant the Guy Fawkes they assumed, Lestrade had ordered everyone they could spare onto researching other places Guy Fawkes could hint at. This included pubs, more indie bands, and even more attempts in trying to find another clue in the little verse itself. People were sent off, and they returned soon after with a shake of their head, declaring the lack of the very much needed envelope.

_Five hours left_

"Right," John stated to anyone paying attention to him (only the female ginger who had been staring at him with an odd look on her face and giggled every time he looked in her direction), "I'm going for a walk."

The sky was still cloudy, still threatening rain, and still had a slight breeze that ruffled his rumpled shirt. Stuffing hands into pockets, he ignored this all and strolled off down the street, head down and mind whirring.

He knew Sherlock probably wouldn't be found on time. Knew that they were most likely just being played with, and that Sherlock was most likely dead by now. But, well, if Lestrade seems willing to try and win this fruitless game, who is he to say no?

After all, maybe his assumptions were wrong.

He hoped to God they were. For Sherlock.

The door opened, and Sherlock ignored the footsteps this time, more interested in his breathing.

"Hiiiiii," the man droned, "look what I've got! It's something for your pretty eyes! A slightly altered version of pepper spray. Brilliant, isn't it! I was going to just leave it as it was, but the effects wear off rather quickly, don't you think?"

Large hands forced his head up, blindfold torn off, leaving him to squint through the light at the blurred figure above him.

He screamed.

_Four hours and fifty minutes left_

Watson had just decided that yes, he had indeed walked far enough to calm his nerves down slightly, and that it would be best to turn back when he looked up to see where he was. A small corner shop with their family name proudly peeling off on the top greeted him with a forlorn expression. A few letters were missing, and the lettering wasn't the easiest to make out, but it looked suspiciously like "Fawkes".

That was when he finally realised just how dense they were all being. He phoned Lestrade to tell inform him on his break through while trying to hail a taxi.

John was walking into the station just as Lestrade was getting ready to walk out of it, Donovan in tow.

"John, come with us," Lestrade ordered, "just found a match to the name Guy Fawkes. Man in his late forties down in Clapham. Just phoned him, turns out he hadn't checked the mail until we called. Has a plain white envelope for us."

John decided to tag along.

Guy Fawkes turned out to be a rather nice man who had sadly been on the wrong end of his parents' odd humour, hence the name. With a balding head and a beer stomach, he was your typical English man, and with a terrible memory.

John didn't notice this, though. He simply noticed the said object of requirement.

Torn open, he pulled out the clue;

"44, 16, 34, 3(-i) ²"

There wasn't a picture this time.

That surely wasn't a good sign.

He shoved it into Lestrade opened hands, and went to stand outside for some air, politely declining the offer of some tea or beer.

There was only four and a half hours left to solve this one now.

_Three hours left_

The rain was back at full pelt, Watson noted absentmindedly as he researched different codes and number references. Their main hope was Anderson, actually, since he seemed to be the best at codes in the whole of the Police force. John hoped that this meant that Anderson was just really good at them, rather than everyone being really bad. But it wasn't like they could afford to be picky right now, since with only four hours left it was hopeless, really. After all, there wasn't much of a chance this would be the last one. That would be far too handy.

He gave a slight nod of thanks to one of the students who handed him too sweetened tea, which he drank with a wince.

He tried not to look at the clock in the corner of his screen.

_Two Hours Left_

Nothing. They had went through pretty much every numerical code that existed on the internet, and there was nothing. Only a few officers were working on the case now, since a murder had inconveniently happened. It was one of those "no evidence left behind" ones that Sherlock loved, to make matters worse.

But, as John made his way through books and online forums, he decided that when Sherlock was found he'll be all over it, despite whatever injuries he might retain. He might not be too bad, he was barely gone for a day. Minus the actual kidnapping and transport to wherever the hell he is now, there's barely any time left. Enough for a bullet to the head, though.

John decided it was time to see what Anderson was actually doing at his desk. With a yawn and a stretch, he stood up and walked over to the hunched up body.

His desk was covered in scattered reports and reference books, with the monitor bearing several dozen pages opened up, all seemingly deadly important as he read code that made complete sense to Anderson.

Somehow, amongst the stained mugs and rubbish huddle near the computer, a small T-Rex stood. John raised an eyebrow at the blushing Anderson, "my daughter gave it to me," he mumbled, as if it made the situation better. In other situations, John would bring up the affair, but right now he was a bit busy.

"Lestrade!" He called to the opened door of the said man's office, "I'm going to check the flat to see if Sherlock has any books on the matter.

The man gave a distracted nod as he answered the phone on his desk.

_One and a half hours left_

The flat was a tip, as usual, and Mrs Hudson seemed to have decided to call it a night, the lights switched off downstairs.

Unlocking the door and walking into the living room, John tried not to trip over any of the piles of Unknown Objects as he staggered to the desk near the window, strewn with newspaper articles that seemed to date to last year, along with hurried notes on post-its and pieces of paper torn from books and unopened letters. God forbid Sherlock clean up after himself, after all.

Shuffling through the papers, grabbing any bits that seemed relevant before turning onto the bookcase, he tried his very best not to let his mind wander. Again.

Then his eyes fell on an opened book by his feet, perched on top of several others.

The Periodic Table. Surely not?

***  
_One hours and twenty mintutes _

Sherlock whined as he rubbed his head on the floor, ignorant to the laugh above him. His eyes were in _fire_, and they insisted on not going out. Oh God, oh God, make it _stop._

"The numbers, Anderson, what are they?" John ordered the second the poor man answered his phone,

"why? Do you have it? It's not any I know, that's for sure,"

"The CODE, Anderson!" He barked, irritated,

"errr, 44, 16, 34, 3(-i) squared."

Silence as John grabbed a pen from the table and scribbled on the book while mumbling to himself; "Ru, S, Se, Li(-i) ²"

"Russell Square!" Anderson yelled, "I'll tell Lestrade, we'll be there within twenty minutes, meet you there.

***  
The search was almost anti-climatic when John arrived. Though he was hardly going to complain, since they really did need to hurry up.

While a few officers poked around on the street and in a few shops, Anderson had decided to go up to the post office and ask if any blank envelopes had been handed in.

Turned out there had been. And it also turned out that it didn't have any riddle or clue to the next place, simply an address.

"_Nile Brook House_

_Stewarts Drive_

_Farnham Common_

_Slough_

_Berkshire_

_SL2 3LB."_

"Now, Sherlock, times ticking and, from the sounds of it, your 'friends' are nearly here! Brilliant! Let's see if they manage to get here on time though, traffic can be a bugger," a tutting noise happened above him, but Sherlock was too dazed to pay attention.

Not long left. God, not too long left.

_One hour left_

They had piled into the cars and driven off, an ambulance on stand-by, just on case. The sirens blazing as they piled through the traffic and people out in the town staggering about town as they made their way through.

They were all keeping an eye on their watches as they drove off to Slough.

_Twenty Minutes Left _

They were in Slough, finally. It had taken far, far, too long for everyone's nerves, but they had made it.

And as they followed the GPS' instructions to Farnham Common, Watson was tensed up and ready to jump out the second they stopped, with the press of his gun stuffed down his trousers a reassurance.

Nineteen Minutes left.

The door opened again, and firm hands grabbed his arms and dragged him out of his room. Whining in protest, he through back his head and bucked, trying to get out of the steady grip. His incredibly weakened state, though, he might as well have not bothered.

Doors opened and swung shut, and he was dragged from carpet to tiles before being dumped on the cold surface. He curled into a ball, trying to keep conscious, wishing the pain would just stop for a second so he could gather his thoughts.

_Eighteen Minutes Left_

The road had been blocked off, it seemed, with the road torn up as to be resurfaced later. No way a car could make it's way over it.

Growling, John ran. Lestrade followed shortly after, along with the two other officers in the car, one calling on a radio for one reason or another. Probably the ambulance.

_Sixteen Minutes Left_

"Now, Sherlock, we're going to give Watson a show he'll never forget!"

A chair groaned nearby as someone with considerable weight sat down.

_Fourteen Minutes Left._

The road stretched on for seemingly forever, trees lining each side as they ran up it, checking each drive in passing to check it didn't bear the name 'Nile Brook House'.

All the lights in the houses were turned off, and only the street lamps lit their desperate path.

_Ten Minutes Left_

A tapping of a foot started as the man got impatient, obviously not used to waiting for other people to arrive.

He wasn't too sure what would be better, Watson being on time, or too late.

_Seven Minutes Left_

On a gaudy plaque half covered in ivy, the letters etched 'Nil Bro Hou", which was good enough for them, and they made their way down the pathway, the others flicking the safety off their guns.

_Five Mintes Left_

A flick of a match on a box broke the air as the man leaned forward,

"awww, poor sociopath. Obviously no one is coming for you, otherwise they would at least _try _to get here a few minutes early. Ah well, it's their lost."

The match fell.

The front door burst open.

"POLICE! HANDS IN THE AIR!"  
Sherlock screamed.

The flame was relishing the petrol, tearing its way around Sherlock's body as he yelled in agony.

Hands. A towel. Firm and steady, putting an end to it. Something stopped feeling hurting, and the bindings were being torn off.

"Eyes," Sherlock slurred, "ma' it sto'"

"Ssshhh," John croaked, "it's okay now. I'm here, you're going to be okay now. Ssshhh."

And the darkness engulfed him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notice**

Because I am a lazy arse when it comes to writing the actual comfort part, I have loaded this job onto** irish-hailsy**. Below is an extract from it, please follow the link if interested in reading the rest. She will be highly appreciative of it.

www . fanfiction . net/s/6525708/1/Bound_and_Gagged_Epilogue

Thank you to all who've managed to reach this far in it :D

* * *

Life has quickly changed for John and even more so for Sherlock.

The hours after the discovery of Sherlock had been something from a nightmare for the doctor. He doubted he would ever forget the flames that threatened to consume the detective, never mind the other injuries.

The rest however, he seemed to have forgotten, and that was probably for the best in John's view. He remembered Lestrade barking orders, Sally trying to persuade him to let go of Sherlock's wrist (the hands were far too damaged for John to even consider touching them), Anderson passing John a blanket.

The paramedics arrived quickly, or so Lestrade had claimed. John almost thought it was a blessing that Sherlock had passed out, no matter how laboured his breathing was.

Mycroft took over things from there on in, as far as John could tell anyways. 'Anthea 'had been waiting at the nearest hospital, where Sherlock had been, rather admirably proficiently, transported to an air ambulance and from there to Queen Victoria Hospital where they were met by Mycroft. For all the Holmes' indifference, John didn't need the intellect or intuitive skills of Sherlock to see how worried Mycroft was. He had even forgotten his umbrella.

And that was were John found himself three weeks later, asleep in the standard uncomfortable plastic chair of QVH Burn's Unit, East Grinstead, Sussex .

It had been touch and go for a long while and the detective had been in so many surgeries that even John had lost count. After stabilising him on arrival it appeared that Mycroft's 'hunch' (for all that Mycroft argued he never acted on 'hunches', but rather on facts, it was still a hunch in John's opinion) had been correct and it was the burns that required immediate attention (that, and his eyes, but that had thankfully been remedied quickly and Sherlock was back to vision, if somewhat blurred, perhaps for the long-term). Sherlock had gone into shock in the air ambulance, the type that a brightly coloured orange blanket wouldn't help.

For the first time in years John prayed to a God he hadn't truly believed in since Afghanistan. He very dearly hoped Sherlock would not find out.

Closer inspection at the hospital had shown John that the burns were fourth-degree on the thighs, cooling off to third-degree on the groin and second-degree on the lower abdomen. This was not good news for Sherlock, despite John's relief that he would not require amputation, as second-degree burns were generally more painful than third- and fourth-. And the third and fourth ones were, naturally, surrounded by the painful more ones. Lucky man. John didn't envy him in the slightest.

Sherlock had stayed in a private ICU unit, courtesy of Mycroft, for almost 3 weeks, before being transferred to another private room for recovery.

'John?' came the somewhat disgruntled voice from the bed.

John started awake, his shoulder throbbing from the awkward position.

Sherlock was looking up at him, the bruising on his face almost completely faded. His hair was scruffier than usual, grown to his chin and flicking out wildly at the end, John couldn't help but note, and he was no longer clean shaven, courtesy of John's hands not being as steady as they used to.

'You okay?' the words had fallen from his lips before he could even attempt to stop them. Of course his friend was not okay, he was bored (as he liked to remind John so. Hourly. It was almost like the Greenwich Pips. But let's not linger on that topic), high on opiates (although in Sherlock's opinion, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing) and probably extremely uncomfortable( despite the pillows the nurses had kindly kept bringing until John had to turn down such offers for fear he would soon lose Sherlock amidst them).

'I'd be much better if that nurse would finally up the dosage.'

John laughed the tiniest bit, because after all one can't laugh at a crime scene, but no one said anything about laughing at the bedside of your very injured friend-with-complications.

'You're already max'ed out on the morphine. Mycroft is already trying to get them to knock it back down.'

'Exactly. Nothing better than annoying the fat, pompous arse. Which reminds me, why have you yet to go sleep with him?'

John choked, on what, he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps he had inhaled his tongue. 'What?'

'Oh for Christ's sake John, do grow up. You know what I mean. Mummy would be delighted to get to know the infamous Doctor John Watson better. I know Mycroft has offered you a room.'

Ah. He was talking about his sleeping arrangements, of which currently didn't exist for John. He slept when Sherlock slept or was at therapy or in surgery or anything that didn't allow John direct contact. It reassured the pair. The nurses also appreciated John to be on hand to calm Sherlock after the nightmares that they both chose to ignore during daylight, but were terrifying and anxiety-ridden for both parties during the night fall.

'You know, London is actually nearer to East Grinstead than it is to Chichester.'

'You have yet to go back, overnight, to either.' John noted the emphasis on 'overnight.'

He was right, of course. He had returned briefly on a handful of occasions, to organise leave for work (bless Sarah. For all the crap he had put the poor woman through lately she still had a heart of gold), pick up some cash and some changes of clothing. Mycroft and taken care of all of Sherlock's requirements and the private room, which was now inhabited by the moody brunette which was getting almost cluttered due to the detective being unexpectedly inundated with gifts and cards. Molly had sent several bunches of flowers, before John had to remind her that flower's weren't allowed in Burn Units due to infection risk. Mrs. Hudson had sent down baskets of food with Mycroft (with small notes included every time. It seemed the dear woman feared Sherlock would starve if he had to eat hospital food. Both Mycroft and John were grateful for the never ending supply of 'good, English food'). Lestrade had sent his own version of a gift, case files that were easy enough as to not to tax Sherlock but complex enough to hold his interest (if Sherlock had noticed this, he had yet to bring it up). Anderson had sent, most confusingly, a large helium dinosaur balloon, to which Sherlock had merely raised an eyebrow to. The rest of Scotland Yard had sent their own tokens of appreciation, and there dedication of catching Moriarty was the token most appreciated.

Mummy Holmes had come down to visit on numerous occasions, always accompanied by Mycroft. John has surprised to meet her at first, expecting a tall, haughty woman, only to be greeted by a short, kind if not worried looking lady. She was most obviously rich, hair tidily pinned by in a silver grey bun, make-up impeccable and donned in a well-kept long, black coat (so that's where Sherlock got the flair of dramatic coat). John couldn't help but notice with slight distaste that the collar of aforementioned coat was made up of a fox.


End file.
